The Turning of an Age
by Anera527
Summary: What if Thorin had lived to see the events of the War of the Ring, and there had then been two Dwarves in the fellowship? What would he have made of it all?
1. Chapter 1

"_**The Turning of an Age"**_

Disclaimer: I own nothing from The Hobbit or LotR.

A/N: For LotR events, I'll be drawing more from the books; but for several mentionings of the Hobbit I'll be drawing much from the movie. To be perfectly honest, I've never been able to read The Hobbit as a book all the way through, though not without lack of trying. On this my _fourth attempt_ to get through it I've gotten as a far as the Battle of the Five Armies.

After watching the movie The Hobbit, I was decidedly impressed by Thorin. He seemed like such a hard-ass in the beginning, especially with Bilbo, but he was courageous and loyal and noble all the same, and I couldn't help but like him. (And when he embraced Bilbo after telling him he was wrong to doubt him at the end of the film, it melted my heart.) Afterwards, however, I couldn't help but wonder what Thorin would have made of the One Ring and the events that transpired and, especially, what he would have made of Frodo. Would he doubt Frodo as he had once doubted Bilbo, or would he have learned from his past mistakes? So that was my inspiration for the story you're about to read, and I hope you like it. One last thing I have to say about this story is that this is NOT slash—at all. This is simply a Thorin-Bilbo friendship, a mite confusing at times, I suppose, but still ONLY a friendship.

Enjoy!

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Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain of Erebor, was admittedly a stoic fellow, certainly the doughtiest of Dwarves (and also one of the most stubborn), but recent events had him ruffled, and not just with anger. No, Thorin Oakenshield was well and goodly troubled and frightened by recent events. The fright, however, was not for a vague some_thing_ but a specific some_one_.

"_We look for a small Halfling, one known to have accompanied you on a journey nigh eighty years ago and a small trinket he carries."_

He had not seen Bilbo Baggins for all those near-eighty years, but up until some thirty years ago he had received several letters a year by the small hobbit he had grown to care about so much until, for some inexplicable reason, they had stopped.

For a long while he had been afraid that something had happened to Bilbo, but word had finally reached him that the hobbit was still living happily in the Shire, head of his family and still dwelling in the home he called Bag End. This news both relieved and confused him. He was glad that nothing had happened to Bilbo, but at the same time he wasn't sure _why_ the hobbit had stopped his correspondence. True, he had been rather harsh on Bilbo for several years following their seizing Erebor again, thinking himself betrayed by the hobbit's giving the Arkenstone to their enemies; but time had cleared much of the anger and bitterness away, and numerous talks with Balin had helped him eventually see that Bilbo had only been acting on what he thought had been right when he had done so.

Not to mention the letter he had received from the hobbit only a year following his departure from Erebor, telling Thorin he was sorry for any bitterness between them and that he would liked to have left on better terms. Thorin had torn the letter up and thrown the pieces into the fire, watching them blacken and crumble; but the letters had continued unabated every six months no matter how many the Dwarf-king tore up or burnt or ignored, and finally there had come a day when Thorin realized he _missed_ talking to Bilbo, and he had hesitantly written back.

It still took him several years to write his forgiveness, but it had seemed enough for Bilbo to simply have Thorin corresponding and so he never mentioned the betrayal again, choosing instead to speak of happenings in the Shire: of obnoxious relatives, tea parties, festivals, birthdays, the birth of a cousin he would in later letters talk about very fondly, and of his writings. Thorin had done the same and wrote of rebuilding Erebor and ridding the city of Smaug's filth and destruction and of his duties as king.

So why had Bilbo's letters, always on time and quite lengthy, abruptly _stop_?

Whatever the reason, he would receive the answer soon. He hoped.

He had been to Rivendell during their quest to take back Erebor when Gandlaf had led he and his Company of Dwarves there without their knowledge. He had not been impressed by the preening Elves then, and he certainly wasn't now; he wouldn't have ever set foot back here if not for the Council that was being held in a few days' time. He could have easily stayed behind as Gloin and his son Gimli went but he had found he was too worried about Bilbo _not_ to go. Even if it meant dealing with more Elves.

What he had not expected, however, was to find that Bilbo was at Rivendell himself, and had been for several years it seemed. It had been a chaotic bustle arriving at the Elvish land after a long, harrowing trip. He had immediately noticed, however, that there was something decidedly off about the place; the calm, tranquil atmosphere that he remembered from his previous visit was now charged with anxiety, a low hum of fear that he could feel like an underlying current. The Elves that greeted his company of Dwarves now were almost distracted, their thoughts and concerns placed with something else.

'Ruddy Elves,' he thought to himself, watching their retreating forms as they left to put their guests' weapons and cloaks away. 'Can't even do us the decency of a proper greeting.' He noticed Gloin looking at him all too knowingly and scowled at him fiercely.

Then his attention caught sight of a small figure hidden in the shadows of the room, peering around at the company of Dwarves. He almost called aloud in his surprise; this was no Elf. This stranger was small in stature, only three feet or so, with a full head of curly hair that hung shaggy and unkempt, so different from any Elf's, and Thorin was sure that this fellow wore no shoes and instead had large hairy feet.

A _hobbit_.

His first thought was that it was Bilbo, but then he realized that this hobbit was too small and slender to be him; besides, it wouldn't be like Bilbo to simply watch old friends arrive and keep silent. Then a second shadow moved and another head of curly hair peered past the first. Thorin blinked. What were _two_ hobbits doing here in Rivendell? His keen ears picked up quiet whispers:

"—just arrived, Merry," whispered the first. "What do you think for?"

"I don't know," replied the second, "but don't worry about that now, Pip. Come on—we need to go see how Cousin Frodo's doing."

_Three_ hobbits? Would surprises never cease, Thorin thought to himself as the two shadows retreated. Asking one of the Elves who the two were, he discovered even more disturbing information than what he had come to deliver. Why would four hobbits flee the Shire? And why would the Ringwraiths be looking for one of them? And they had tried to cross Rivendell's borders? It was by asking about the named Frodo Baggins that he found out that Bilbo was, in fact, in Rivendell.

Which now, in turn, explained his searching for the room he'd hopefully find Bilbo in. Luckily he found it easily enough, but he found that he could do nothing but simply look at the door for a long moment, almost _afraid_ to see Bilbo again. But then he shook himself—he was the king of Erebor, blast it—and let himself into the room.

The first thing he saw was the immense bed, big enough to hold five Dwarves. Seated beside the bed, wrapped in a blanket with an open book, was a small hobbit that was clearly resting his head on the blankets; sleeping. Thorin almost backed out, but he made too much noise—the hobbit's head shot up.

It was Bilbo—but a much older Bilbo than Thorin remembered. But of course he would be well over a hundred at least, the Dwarf thought to himself. The hobbit's face was heavily lined, his once-thick brown hair now thinner and a greyish-white, but there was still the same fire and spirit in his eyes that Thorin remembered. Seeing him, Bilbo almost cried aloud, a slow delighted smile spreading across his face, but then he seemed to shake himself and clamp down on his outcry. His voice came out as a hoarse whisper:

"_Thorin_?"

The Dwarf was taken aback at how much older he sounded as well, but he rallied himself quickly and attempted a smile.

"The very same, Burglar Baggins."

And Bilbo couldn't help laughing, delight very much lighting up his face, and he disengaged his hand from the blankets of the bed and climbed down from his chair; he moved more stiffly as well, although the old bounce was still there. Upon closer inspection, Thorin saw that Bilbo looked virtually exhausted, however, and not with age. He was worried, his face haggard from lack of sleep and deep circles under his eyes from worry and sorrow. But he didn't speak of this and instead allowed an embrace that took a while for them to step away from. When finally they did, Bilbo smiled tiredly up at him.

"I apologize that I did not come to meet you, old friend," he said softly. "But I'm watching over my boy, you see."

"Your—boy?" He had never thought Bilbo had settled down and married; certainly none of his letters had mentioned anything of the sort.

Bilbo nodded towards the bed. "Frodo. My nephew." He walked back over to the bed; and Thorin, following him, realized that the bed he had thought was previously empty was, in fact, occupied.

The hobbit in the bed was clearly recovering from a terrible illness; the remnants of a fever flushed normally pale skin a faint pink, and his dark brown, almost black, hair was stiff with dried sweat.

"What happened to him?"

Bilbo sighed and took the other hobbit's slender fingers in his own gnarled and knotted ones. "He was attacked, from what the Elves will tell me, by those Black Riders. They attacked my boy and stabbed him in the shoulder with a cursed blade." The anger in his voice told Thorin how upset he was, and he could tell from the echoes of grief in his old voice that Bilbo's nephew had had a close call indeed.

Stabbed by a cursed blade…

"Lord Elrond had to search for a sliver of the blade still in Frodo twice before he finally found out only a few hours ago," Bilbo was continuing, shaking Thorin from his thoughts. The older hobbit's hand unconsciously reached up and stroked his nephews dark curls; somehow, Frodo seemed to sense his uncle's presence and moved into the touch, shifting beneath the covers, thick eyelashes fluttering uneasily. "Easy, dearling," Bilbo murmured, the Dwarf-king momentarily forgotten. "Sleep." And his words seemed to work; Frodo quieted and slipped back into deep sleep, and Bilbo sighed deeply with relief. He turned to Thorin with another tired smile, and saw Thorin looking at his nephew strangely—almost jealously.

"I am sorry, Thorin," he said finally, "about Fili and Kili."

Thorin stiffened, and Bilbo almost regretted saying anything at all. Fili and Kili had died defending Thorin as he lay bleeding and terribly wounded on the battlefield. But then Thorin relaxed a little.

"It was—hard—to know what happened to them a long time," he said gruffly. "But what's done is done. They died honorably, and they died knowing they had saved me." He looked back down at Frodo. "How did _you_ get a nephew on your hands?"

Bilbo sighed again. "He is actually my cousin, but Frodo grew up calling me uncle. His parents drowned on the Brandywine when he was twelve, and I brought him to live with me at Bag End when it became clear he was stifled growing up in Buckland. He is a bright lad, you'll find, with a mind for learning, and there's a reason why his name so aptly suits him—'Wise One' indeed. And certainly more extraordinary than this old and achy hobbit."

Thorin frowned, wondering what his old friend meant by that, but decided that ultimately that it didn't matter. Something else did. "Why did you stop sending your letters?"

Bilbo blinked. "Did I-?" Then he seemed to remember and he groaned to himself. "Time slipped away with me again!" he exclaimed softly, and turned to look at Thorin guiltily. "I became quite focused on my writings, my friend, and a growing tweenager had not been the easiest thing for time."

Thorin frowned deeply; it didn't seem a good excuse simply to say he forgot, but if the past had taught him anything it was that some things weren't important enough to dwell upon. He was here _now_, and he would be able to catch up on news _now_.

"I suppose," he said, and surprised himself by meaning it. "But come—we can share stories by light of fire and smoke a pipe like days past."

The looming Shadow could wait for one more night.

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A/N: I've started the second chapter already, so it shouldn't be too long before you see an update on this. Some of you may be wondering why I choose to kill of Fili and Kili—well, to be honest, I've been reading a lot of fanfictions where _all_ of the Dwarves survive, and logistically and statistically speaking, there should have been at least a _couple_ tragedies in a battle like the Five Armies.


	2. Chapter 2

"_**Chapter 2"**_

A/N: I would like to thank all of the authors for their reviews: you guys are awesome! Just a small side-note here: this chapter there will be a couple more AU things happening that'll alter some things for the events in this specific chapter.

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"Mr. Bilbo, sir?"

The unfamiliar voice made Thorin start awake from where he sat. His hand automatically reached for Orcist before he realized that he was not sleeping in the Wild or even in his quarters at Erebor; instead he found himself at the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, quite without his sword. His disoriented senses confused him for a moment before he remembered the night before—he and Bilbo had come here and spoken long with each other, and he must have dozed off eventually right where he was sitting.

'Stupid!' he growled to himself.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he realized that a fourth hobbit was standing beside Bilbo's chair. He was a smaller, more robust fellow than the other halflings, Thorin noticed, with a wider girth and stouter limbs. There were the same tell-tale signs of exhaustion on this stranger that Bilbo shared, and something more as well: signs of a loss of weight in a short amount of time, a haggardness to his bearing and deep shadows marring the skin beneath his brown eyes. Had he, too, kept vigil over Bilbo's ill nephew? When seeing Thorin's abrupt movements, the hobbit jumped back a pace, but he didn't seem frightened; just wary. Thorin nearly chuckled but stopped himself from doing so knowing that the stranger would probably take offense to that. And if the little fellow didn't then Bilbo would.

The latter shook himself in the seat opposite Thorin, also having fallen asleep sometime during their talk, and smiled at the newest arrival. "Hello, Sam!"

The younger hobbit glanced warily at Thorin for a moment before turning back to his elder, and the Dwarf quite got the idea that he was mistrusted by the stranger. Sam—was that what Bilbo had called him?—had seen him reach for his weapon. He was probably going to be watched carefully from now on.

"Mr. Bilbo, sir," Sam said again, "you should come right quick. Mr. Frodo's just woken up!" He was undoubtedly excited, and it showed by the wide smile that spread across his face while he spoke. "It'll do him plenty o' good to know you're here, Mr. Bilbo, and that's a fact."

Bilbo nearly leaped out of his chair in his eagerness. "Praise the Valar!" he cried, seeming quite young again. Thorin watched him, taken aback, as Bilbo hobbled with a speed belying his age away through the Hall to the healing rooms. He slid from his own seat and followed. Sam walked between them, in front of Thorin, and respectfully behind the elder hobbit. A servant, then. Passing through the hallways he didn't see any of his company, but that was not worrying—after such a journey they would all likely sleep in.

Approaching the room where Bilbo's nephew was, Thorin thought he heard the deep rumble of a familiar voice, but nearly shook his head. There was no possible way…

Stopping at the door, he saw first, with a shock, a familiar grey-clad figure seated beside the bed, as tall as a Man, but certainly no Man. He looked no older than he had almost eighty years before, except for his beard having perhaps grown a few more inches.

_Gandalf._

"Gandalf!" Bilbo echoed his thought delightedly. "Watching over my wayward nephew, then, eh?" Thorin saw the wizard's mouth open to reply but was interrupted by a high, clear voice calling out,

"Bilbo!"

The elder hobbit's figure quickly left Thorin's line of vision, but he heard him scolding lightly, "Now listen here, Frodo-my-lad, I'll have none of your attempts to get out of bed until Lord Elrond gives the say-so. Lay back down in those pillows before I have Sam sit on you."

"Mr. Bilbo-!" came the servant's voice, sounding rather strangled, but Bilbo merely laughed.

"Sometimes that is all you can do to keep this inquisitive lad in bed, Sam."

"Bilbo!" came his nephew's voice, sounding almost exasperated; but the tone was one of fondness. "When did you get here? Why didn't you write me? How _long_ have you been here? Why—"

"A hobbit can barely answer your questions if you're busy talking, Frodo," Bilbo interrupted swiftly, a clear smile in his own tone. "I have been here for several years since leaving the Shire, and I never wrote you because then you would never have settled down in Bag End properly. But you are here now and now we'll have plenty of time to catch up. I am so glad you've finally come, even if circumstances were not the way they should have been. How are you feeling now, my lad?"

There was a pause, then: "Better, Uncle. Gandlaf was just telling me what had happened during the days I couldn't remember. Had it really been seventeen days that I was ill? It felt so much longer than that."

"Yes, my lad. But Lord Elrond has healed you well, so you'll be back to your old self in no time, I'm sure."

"Speaking of Lord Elrond," came Gandalf's voice, and Thorin saw the wizard stand from his seat, "I ill go inform him that you are now awake. He was planning a feast for the day you would wake; and he will want to inspect your shoulder once more. He will be pleased to know you're well."

Thorin almost snorted again. After getting stabbed by a Morgul knife, he didn't think that there ever would be a time where the hobbit would be truly _well_.

"A feast? For what?" came Frodo's surprised question.

"To celebrate that you're doing better, but Lord Elrond has guests that have arrived, and he wants to give them a proper greeting. I'm sure Gandalf has informed you that there will be a council held here in a couple days' time?"

"Yes, Uncle. Will you be going tonight?'

There was a long moment of silence, then Bilbo began quietly, "I don't go in for such things much now, my lad.* Too loud and busy for an old hobbit like myself, you know."

Thorin didn't hear an answer and curious to know why he stepped farther into the room, still mostly hidden by a bend in the doorway; but he was able to see the bed and Bilbo now, although of the servant he could see no sign. Stepping heavily as a Dwarf does, however, he caught their attention, and a pair of curly heads turned to him at the same moment. Bilbo smiled. "Thorin! I forgot to ask you to come along, and I do apologize. The excitement and all that, you know. Come in, come in! I want you to meet my nephew properly."

Caught, Thorin could only do as Bilbo asked, growling to himself the entire way. What had he been doing spying like that? He was the king of Dale, not some sort of lowlife creeping at the doors. He should have entered with Bilbo or left from the very beginning.

"Thorin _Oakenshield_?" came Bilbo's nephew's disbelieving voice. He turned to the younger hobbit.

Awake, Frodo Baggins did look very much like Bilbo, but more ethereal; his hair was a darker brown than Bilbo's had been, his nose straighter and thinner, with fine arching eyebrows and the bluest eyes Thorin had ever seen. He didn't look as much as a hobbit than as an Elf, Thorin thought, and couldn't help the slight disgust at the thought. The stupid Elves, all stately and poised…

"The very same," Bilbo responded, smiling fondly at his nephew. Frodo's gaze passed Thorin to his uncle, and there was an unspoken inquiry there that showed that he knew Bilbo's story—_all_ of the story, especially how it ended. He turned back to Thorin after Bilbo nodded, almost in reassurance.

"Are you still king of Erebor?"

Of all the questions Thorin had expected, _that_ certainly was not one of them. He almost choked on his surprise and indignation before seeing Bilbo start to laugh, the rest of the remaining tension in his shoulders and face draining away at hearing his nephew's inquiry. Thorin suffered the question if only because it had amused Bilbo so much, but still had a hard time not scowling at the lad. Frodo did not seem the least bit fazed by his glare, only looked at him expectantly. When the seconds stretched on, Bilbo decided to take pity on the Dwarf.

"Frodo, if you had paid attention to my stories you would already know the answer to that."

"Yes, but it's been seventeen years since I heard you tell the last one," Frodo replied, looking at his uncle, "so anything could have happened during that time, couldn't it?"

Bilbo chuckled, looking over at Thorin. "You'll have to forgive my lad, Thorin," he said, knowing the direction of the Dwarf's thoughts. "Frodo has always been inquisitive, asking questions that seem—odd, at times, but good questions all the same." He looked at his nephew critically. "You still look tired, lad," he said. "If you are going to the feast tonight you should sleep until Lord Elrond tells you you can get up."

"But Bilbo," Frodo objected, "I don't want to go if you're not going. I'd rather stay and talk with you."

"You'll have plenty of time to catch up with me after tonight, Frodo," Bilbo answered, his tone firming ever-so-slightly. "Lord Elrond is paying you an honor. You cannot say you aren't going—how would that reflect on us as hobbits? And as you yourself?"

"Uncle," Frodo sighed, but even as he tried to object it seemed to melt away, and Thorin wondered if that was how discussions between them usually went: he had the impression that Frodo was a lot more stubborn than he looked now.

"No, Frodo," Bilbo said, his tone soft again. "You would be doing your hosts a dishonor."

"If your nephew wants company during the feast," Thorin spoke now, surprising himself by even opening his mouth, "I would be honored to be so."

Both Bilbo and Frodo turned to him, Bilbo pleased, Frodo surprised. "But—what about your companions?" the latter asked confusedly, frowning. "Won't they want to sit with their king?"

"There is no reason why seating arrangements can't be changed," Thorin replied smoothly. "Besides, all of them will want the honor of meeting our Burglar Baggins' nephew. They were all rather fond of Bilbo himself, you see."

And as the two hobbits agreed to his idea, Thorin had to wonder what he'd just gotten himself into.

A/N: Next chapter will have mentionings of the feast, Thorin will meet Merry and Pippin (I feel for him now D) and then the Council.


	3. Chapter 3

"_**Chapter 3"**_

"Mr. Frodo—"

"No."

"But—"

"_No_, Sam, and that's final."

Thorin watched in bemused amusement as the two hobbits argued. He didn't think that this was a normal occurrence for the master and his servant to be quarreling like this, but he decided that he wasn't going to intervene. Let Bilbo or one of the Elves do that—the King Under the Mountain wouldn't be bothered. He simply walked with them along the halls of Rivendell, not surprised when they headed outside. The hobbits and the Dwarf walked along the tranquil garden paths, passing several Elves along the way; Thorin nearly growled at them but ultimately decided that it wouldn't be too much longer and he would be leaving and he would never have to deal with Elves again. (He swore to himself that he was going to take an early retirement.) So he kept silent, his customary glower on his face as they went along. Before too long the three of them came along a pavilion standing by the water's edge, and he saw that the two hobbits he had seen the night arrived were seated there, smoking their pipes and swinging their large, furry feet below the table, not quite able to reach the ground. Frodo and Sam stopped their argument mid-word and hurried over.

One of the two hobbits, the one with bright copper curls, jumped up in his seat excitedly, flinging his arms out in a grand gesture of greeting. "_Hurray!"_ he crowed in the usual high clear voice of his kind, _"Here is our noble cousin! Make way for Frodo, Lord of the Ring!"_

"Hush!" came Gandalf's voice from where he stood in the shadows of the pavilion. He turned a stern eye on the young hobbit as Frodo and Sam took their own seats across from their companions. "Frodo is no more the Lord of the Ring than any of us can be, and although the Shadow has not yet marred this place there are still yet some matters that should not be called aloud for all the hosts to hear about." Thorin thought he saw the wizard's eye look at him and realized that on some level Gandalf was talking about _him_.

He was thinking about what the young hobbit had cried, however; Lord of the Ring. What was that referring to? It was surely Bilbo's ring that he'd found on their Adventure, but why would it be so important? Then the pieces fell into place: the Ringwraiths chase of the younger Baggins, for something that was hidden and valuable to the Enemy. The cloaked monster at Erebor asking for Bilbo's whereabouts and for information on the ring he carried. There was only one ring still left in the world that the Dark Lord would be so desperately seeking.

Had Bilbo been so unlucky enough to have found the _One _Ring? It was the only possible answer left, but it was one that he did not care to contemplate. Feeling someone's attention upon him he looked up to see Gandalf still gazing at him, his eyes still stern and untouchable—even a mite concerned. But the wizard did not speak and instead turned back to the gathering of hobbits.

"What's made Sam look so unsettled?" the fourth hobbit, the one with golden curls, asked around the mouth of his pipe. He was looking curiously at Frodo, who sighed in a mix of exasperation and fondness.

"He wants to be the one who waits on us during the feast tonight," he replied, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "No matter what I tell him he still insists that that is his rightful place and job."

"Aye," Sam responded, still quite upset. Thorin didn't understand why Frodo was so adamant about Sam _not_ serving during the feast. That was one of the duties of a servant, was it not? As king of Erebor, Thorin would never think about allowing one of _his_ servants to eat with him. "I wouldn't feel right, Mr. Frodo, sittin' up there among all them important folk—"

"Samwise Gamgee!" Frodo exclaimed. "There are times where your Gaffer is right to call you a ninnyhammer!" His patience with his servant seemed to have finally run out—but Thorin was not expecting to hear him continue: "You all here deserve praise and honor—_especially_ the three of you. Without you I would not have likely survived the journey."

"Be careful, Cousin," said the golden-haired hobbit remarked flippantly, "You may give me and Pip big heads." But there was a look of strain to his dark blue eyes, barely able to be seen, that said all too plainly that he was not as frivolous as he pretended to be.

"Whatever you may think, Merry," Frodo replied with a gentle smile that said he saw this as well, "I will be forever thankful for the three of you and your actions during our adventure. It will make me very happy to see you be honored for your actions and bravery."

"Indeed," Gandalf agreed, seeming to catch the sight of Sam's still-dubious expression. He turned fully to the latter. "This feast is in your honors—all of yours. A servant you may be, Samwise, but tonight you will be waited on by those who feel it to be a privilege."

Sam flushed crimson under the wizard's praise as Frodo beamed up at the tall figure. Gandalf winked at him with a hint of a smile of his own.

"Merry, Pippin," Frodo said after a moment, seeming to remember Thorin's presence, "I want you to meet an old friend of Uncle Bilbo's: Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain."

The looks upon the two latters' faces was almost comical: they both stopped mid-puff in their smoking and turned equally wide eyes onto the Dwarf. The copper-haired one's mouth fell open in a mix of awe and excitement, while his companion looked at him with wonder and a hint of calculation as if he were being evaluated. One with a quicksilver mind, Thorin thought to himself, and nodded at the two.

"I'm honored to meet your acquaintance," he said.

The copper-haired one nearly fell backwards out of his chair with a squeak of shock and delight. "Peregrin Took at your service!" he said when he righted himself, very breathless. He probably would have gotten up and bowed but he would have fallen over completely if he tried.

The golden-haired one did bow politely as was a hobbit's wont. "Meriodoc Brandybuck at the service of you and yours," he said, and sat back down while Frodo, laughing, helped steady Pippin in his seat.

"By the Valar, Pip, you'd think you just met Eru himself."

"Thorin Oakenshield, Frodo!" Pippin exclaimed. "Right out of Cousin Bilbo's story! And a king!" He turned bright, excited eyes to the Dwarf-king. Merry mock-groaned and turned to Thorin with a sympathetic smile.

"If you value any quiet at all, Your Majesty, I think you should leave now as quickly as you can. Pippin here will beg you for stories and ask you so many questions you'll quite lose your head."

"I haven't heard you complaining about it all these years!" Pippin said, looking at his kinsman indignantly. And just like that the two of them were set off bickering playfully with each other, recounting past excursions and activities that they had done growing up, with Frodo joining in. Thorin looked at them all with a heightening sense of bemusement, unsure of how to deal with such creatures. Having only ever dealt with Bilbo before he was not so familiar with hobbits and this was showing him just how little he knew.

Gandalf moved to where he was standing with a knowing smile and twinkling eyes. "You will discover, Thorin," the wizard said softly for him alone, "that hobbits will _always_ find a way to surprise you."

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The feast was loud and long and crowded. Thorin hated to admit but it wasn't actually too bad—for an Elf's anyway. He sat with Gloin who, seated beside Frodo, soon struck up a conversation with the hobbit about their activities at Erebor. Thorin listened to the long commentary with an amused grin as he ate: it was not often that Dwarves found a willing audience for their stories or how they'd rebuilt Erebor, and Gloin fairly ran himself out, because Frodo listened attentively, clearly interested.

Following the feast, he bid the four hobbits goodbye for the night and went to his own quarters. Gloin, followed by his son Gimli, walked beside him.

"You did not tell Frodo about the messenger," Thorin stated.

Gloin looked over at him. "I felt it best for now," he answered. "I did not want to worry him about Bilbo. He will find out about it at the council, after all." He paused. "Was I in error? Should I have told him anyway?"

Thorin shook his head. "No, my friend. You were right in your thoughts. We will wait until the Council to see what they'll make of it."

Of his suspicions about the One Ring he spoke of nothing.

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The Council, when it was over, made Thorin realize just how grave the danger was; not just for Bilbo, but for all of Middle-earth. The One Ring was found, held in Frodo Baggin's hands, and Sauron was actively seeking for It. It needed to be destroyed… but how could a small Company of people hope to accomplish that? He thought the idea of taking the Ring to Mount Doom suicidal, dangerous beyond words. Frodo's offering to take It there had floored him, leaving him stunned in his seat; looking at Bilbo it seemed like the old hobbit felt the same way, looking at his nephew like he'd never seen him before.

Or perhaps looking at him in a new light. There was a stunned, almost hollow look to Bilbo's expression, and fear, but it was not for himself—rather, it was for his nephew. But even as Thorin watched the fear and hollowness vanished to be replaced by an aching pride that nearly made Thorin call out to Frodo to step back and let someone else take the burden of the journey.

How could a hobbit possibly accomplish what no one before had been able to? But he kept silent, thrusting his fears away for the moment, and instead focused on the here and now.

He just had to figure out what he was going to do in the face of this awakened Evil.

A/N: I hope I didn't disappoint too many of you with such abbreviated versions of the feast and the Council, but in all honesty I didn't want to play too much with the Master's already-masterful work. So I just wrote about what I thought Thorin's actions would be in both circumstances. As to Bilbo's reaction at the Council, Tolkien never actually really wrote about his reaction to Frodo's offer of taking the Ring to Mordor at the Council, and I think that in those first few moments I think Bilbo would have been terribly afraid for Frodo; and his looking at Frodo "differently" just meant that he was seeing why he thought Frodo was so unlike all the other hobbits and why it had been Frodo he adopted in the first place.

As to another note, I'm sorry if some of you didn't like Thorin's looking down on Sam because he's a servant, but it just seemed to me that he would. I don't know if Dwarves a society actually have what we call "servants" but as king of Erebor Thorin must have people waiting on him. That's just historically accurate, since any royalty always had someone there as a servant.

Until Chapter 4, all!


	4. Chapter 4

"_**Chapter 4"**_

"Thorin!" Gloin protested, looking very shocked. He and the other Dwarves in the company were all looking at their king in a mix of confusion and surprise where Thorin stood pacing before them in their quarters. It was two days after the Council, and the Dwarves were having the third meeting of their own to try and agree on what should be done. So far there had been plenty of contradictions in suggestions, the most that several volunteers should send messages out to Erebor while the others stayed behind, but all the while Thorin had stayed silent, saying neither yay nor nay.

Silent, that is, until now.

"My king, to leave Erebor now just as all Darkness is descending would be madness, a dooming of all we've built in eighty years—"

"As King of Erebor it is my duty to protect my people!" Thorin replied, glaring at Gloin. "If that means taking part in this Quest then I will go!" And damn the consequences! he added to himself, but kept it _only_ to himself.

"But if you are lost in this journey, Thorin," Gloin replied, "then there will be a long battle to find a successor to the throne—and you are not as young as you once were, anyway."

Well, he was right in that regard. Thorin was well over two hundred and fifty, his once-black hair nearly all white now, and his previous wounds from the battle of the Five Armies gave him more and more trouble the older he got. But like he usually did, Thorin stubbornly refused to be told 'no'. "None of our work will matter at all if Sauron wins, Gloin," he answered as evenly as he could; his tone seemed to work—all of them seemed to rock back on their feet as the horrible impact of the truth hit them all.

The Dwarves all knew of the horrors of Sauron; the Necromancer, the Deceiver. It had been he who had taken the Dwarves' rings from them. It had been he who had almost cast all of Arda into a cloud of Darkness, and his name still threw a shadow upon everything if he was mentioned. No matter how much they argued they all knew the terrible danger Arda was facing. That was why Thorin knew he would win this argument.

And win he did. It brought him little satisfaction. With such a thing to argue against, how could it? The world itself was at stake.

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"So you have decided to join Frodo on his Quest," Gandalf said quietly.

He and Thorin were alone in one of the smaller rooms far from the Hall of Fire where the five hobbits were, holding a Council of their own. Thorin wryly thought that this was the most councils he'd been part of in a very long time but again decided it wasn't worth mentioning. He stood by the wall nearest the door, arms folded across his chest in a gesture of defiance; Gandalf was seated hunched by the window so his profile was struck violently in the sun streaming gently through. The wizard looked weary. Very weary, and very troubled. It was not like the wizard to look so unsure, and that was what was worrying Thorin the most at the moment. If Gandalf the Grey was worried, he had learned that everyone else should be too. He just wasn't sure what Gandalf was so worried _about_. It wasn't just the Quest and its impossible nature.

"You fear for the Ringbearer?" he asked for the sake of the question. The silence was unnerving to him.

Gandalf sighed, barely moving from where he sat; but then he turned to look at the Dwarf. "It was such a close call," he said finally, and Thorin knew what he was talking about. "The thought of how close we lost Frodo to the Darkness already freezes my blood. To imagine that remarkable soul twisted and raped by the Dark…" He trailed off and shuddered, the cloth of his robes fluttering gently. Thorin felt like shuddering as well and closed his eyes briefly to recollect his nerves at the thought of the Ringwraiths. He took a calming breath through his nose and opened his eyes again.

"He seems to be recovering well enough," he replied.

Gandalf nearly snorted, a sight that was surprising in and of itself. (Who ever heard of a wizard doing such a thing, anyway?) "I'll tell you a little-known secret of Frodo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield," he said wryly. "That lad is among the most stubborn of any individual I have ever met. Frodo will strive to make us think that he is recovering better than he really is."

Thorin didn't know if he believed that. He had seen no sign of such a thing while he watched Frodo over the past few days. Gandalf saw what he was thinking and his wry grin widened.

"Frodo is one of the most remarkable beings I've ever had the pleasure of meeting," he said quietly. "I first met him shortly after he turned twenty and I had heard Bilbo first think about adopting Frodo as his heir. The lad was still living in Buckland at that point at Brandy Hall, watched over by those who lived there. Bilbo would make it a point to visit him every month or send for Frodo to stay a week at Bag End with him. It just so happened that Frodo was spending his week there when I visited." He chuckled to himself at some memory. "When I entered the smial, he was working on binding a book for Bilbo. A work of Elvish lore that he seemed to love. Hobbits normally have no love for books unless they hold recipes or herb-knowledge, you must understand. To see the lad so eager to read and know about the outside world was a pleasant surprise. The way he would talk! Always asking questions, ever curious. He had no fear of me when we met, and even asked me if it was true that I was the very same wizard who had met Bilbo at Bag End before his big Adventure."

Thorin snorted a laugh. "He asked me if I was still King Under the Mountain the morning he woke," he explained to the wizard's questioning look.

Gandalf laughed. "He meant no offense by that, let me assure you. He even had enough spirit to tell me that he thought it was very rude of Bilbo to tell me he thought I had died when I asked Bilbo where I could be."

Thorin couldn't help but feel a new sense of admiration for the young hobbit. If Frodo had been brave enough to say those things to Gandalf and to his uncle then he must be very brave indeed! "I'm beginning to think it will be very interesting to get to know him," he finally remarked.

Gandalf looked at him carefully again. "I think it will be, too," he agreed, and left it at that.


	5. Chapter 5

"_**Chapter 5"**_

A/N: For all of you who've read so far, here's another chapter for you! We'll see a slight confrontation between Thorin and Elrond, and finally a one-on-one meeting with our grumpy Dwarf-king and the Ringbearer. Thank you all again for all you're wonderful reviews and support: and the person calling themselves "Ringer"—I'm glad I'm giving you something to do in your free time. I'll try not to ruin it for you! Vana Jedi, I know exactly what you mean, your comment made me laugh. Irony! Bright Watcher, thanks so much for your lovely review, it means a lot, and I'm glad you like the humor and the short comments about the Shadow. creepyLOTRfangirl55, I'm really afraid of screwing up now! xD

And for all of you out there who are struggling with life in general, and you feel dragged down by burdens, here's a word of encouragement: _"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."- Jermeiah 29: 11._

Onward, my merry band of followers!

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When it was decided that Thorin would accompany the Ringbearer on his Quest he brought the decision to Elrond himself. Young Gimli came with him, walking along his king silently but attentively; not as a bodyguard but simply as company. Thorin didn't mind—Goin was one of his oldest friends, even before the Adventure to take back Erebor, and he had seen Gimli grow into a respectable, robust Dwarf able to hold his own in battle. Any bitter thoughts Thorin had about Fili and Kili he kept only to himself, refusing to speak of their end to anyone. It had been difficult talking to Bilbo about them but he knew that the hobbit had genuinely cared for Thorin's nephews and had been truly sorrowful about the Dwarf-king's loss.

Of course, having a beloved nephew of his own, a nephew who had just struggled with a life-and-death experience, had probably made Bilbo realize all-to-well the terror and sorrow of the thought of losing "his lad". Thorin had been unable to hide the jealousy he had felt for Bilbo the night they had finally met again, seeing the deep care the two hobbits clearly felt for each other; but he had also been caring enough to be grateful, too, that at least Bilbo had had his own nephew saved.

Saved from an undead existence…

Elrond was clearly expecting Thorin at some point because he did not seem surprised in the least to see him. He merely allowed the two Dwarves entry with a genuine greeting and closed the door softly behind them.

"What help can I give you, Master Oakenshield?" he asked, stepping behind his fine desk, though he did not seat himself. 'Must enjoy looking down at us,' Thorin sneered to himself. He fought to keep his contempt from his expression and knew he was only partly successful.

"I've come to tell you that I have decided that I am joining the Ringbearer on his Quest," he answered shortly, daring the Elf to object.

Elrond merely raised a dark eyebrow and pondered him for a long moment. "What of your kingdom, Master Oakenshield? The road to the Black Land will be a treacherous one. There is a chance one or several will not survive the journey."

So he knew that the Quest was most likely a suicidal one as well, Thorin realized; and in that moment his already-fierce hatred of the Elves burned even hotter. So this Elf-lord was just going to sit back and allow others to do the dirty work, was he? He was willing to sacrifice as many lives as it would take just to see the One Ring destroyed.

"I would rather die trying to protect my homeland than simply sitting back and doing nothing," he growled; his words were a deliberate barb at Elrond's lack of action. Beside him he felt Gimli stiffen as if preparing for battle and knew that the younger Dwarf understood—and agreed with—what he was saying.

Elrond's stormy grey eyes flashed with anger as he realized what Thorin was implying, but with an effort of will he forced down his own biting reply. "Very well," he said instead. "I will inform—"

"I would ask to accompany the Ringbearer as well," Gimli spoke suddenly, the deep rumble of his voice startlingly loud; his words seemed to echo in the sudden silence that filled the room. Thorin turned to look at his companion, startled, and Elrond looked at Gimli as well, both eyebrows now raised. Gimli met both of their surprised gazes head-on, stubbornly refusing to back down.

"Gimli, Gloin will—"

"My father knows I am well and capable enough to go should I wish it," the red-headed Dwarf replied evenly. "I would be honored to be one of the Ringbearer's companions on his journey. And you know that if I do not go with you then Father will," he added when Thorin still looked unconvinced.

And Thorin couldn't help but chuckle, knowing that with Gimli's words he had effectively lost the argument before it had even begun. "Indeed he would," he conceded, and turned back to Elrond. "It appears that my mind has been decided for me, Master Elrond."

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Following his meeting with Elrond, Thorin sought out Frodo himself. His realization of Elrond's actions, or lack thereof, had made him slightly defensive and maybe a little opposing to the hobbit's taking the Quest on his shoulders. Hidden beneath that he knew that he was more than anything else afraid that Frodo had agreed simply because he had felt that sacrificing himself was not so tragic at all. Thorin didn't want to see Bilbo's nephew play in the Elves' games.

Frodo, he found, was seated by himself in one of the side gardens near his rooms, reading a thick tome that he had clearly borrowed from Elrond's extensive library. He seemed almost made from stone, a decorative effigy set there, from the amount of movement he made. He seemed nary to even breathe. Thorin didn't think that that was a normal habit of the Small Folk but remembered Gandalf's words that Frodo Baggins was a rather peculiar soul of his kind. He certainly seemed to read well—his blue eyes roved the page almost hungrily, finishing a page quickly and moving onwards with a speed that said that he had a high level of intelligence and comprehension for reading material. Thorin had a moment of wondering what the hobbit would make of the Dwarves' collection of books at Erebor—the library was just as large if not in as best of shape—before he reminded himself that he was not here to talk about books.

The hobbit seemed completely immersed in his reading; Thorin was able to come within feet of him and he had not yet stirred from the page he was on. Certainly not something Thorin had seen from the other halflings, apart from Bilbo of course, who had lost himself in a book now and again. He cleared his throat.

"Master Baggins."

Frodo jumped slightly in his seat, clearly startled, and the book slipped from his hands to fall with a loud 'thump' onto the grass below. The spine of the book, however, had bumped his arm—the injured one, Thorin noticed, and he heard Frodo's quick hiss of pain as his healing wound throbbed. Feeling a mite guilty that he had caused the hobbit pain, Thorin bent and retrieved the book for him and set it on the bench. Frodo looked up at him curiously, and again the Dwarf was surprised by how much the hobbit looked like an Elf. Blue eyes met blue in silence until finally Thorin spoke again.

"I am sorry for disturbing you, Master Baggins—"

But Frodo waved a dismissive hand. "It's not the first time I've been caught off-guard by reading," he replied with a self-chagrined smile. "And please, if you are going to address me, call me Frodo."

"Very well—Frodo. But you must call me Thorin."

The hobbit's grin turned humorous. "No 'Your Majesty' or 'my king'?"

Thorin nearly smiled himself. Such spirit. "As Bilbo's nephew I see no reason why you should. Bilbo himself never did. Hobbits in general do not seem ones to go much in for royalty, I've found."

Frodo nodded. "Indeed we don't." He looked at Thorin closely. "What is it? You look like you have a question."

Perceptive as well. Thorin inclined his head. "I came to tell you that I will be coming along on your Quest."

He was surprised when Frodo did not protest like the others had. There was no asking what his kingdom would do while he was away, no saying that he had to go back to Erebor and not endanger his life. He merely continued to look up at the Dwarf as if he understood why Thorin was coming until finally the he spoke again.

"I would be honored to have you with me, Thorin," he said.

And suddenly Thorin couldn't keep silent about his resentment of his new discovery. His fear. "Why did you decide to claim this Task as your own?"

That did surprise Frodo. He stiffened and his eyebrows drew into a frown of confusion. He blinked but Thorin could tell he was thinking seriously about his answer. Finally, the hobbit shook his head. "I felt like it was my duty," he finally said softly. "Like… it was something I have to do." He took a deep breath. "I'm not doing it because I'm brave, because I'm not. I'm doing it because I feel I _should_."

And Thorin found that he couldn't argue with that.


	6. Chapter 6

"_**Chapter 6"**_

A/N: I am finding it ridiculously easy to write Gandalf in character. Hopefully I've done a good job with Bilbo in this chapter…

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"If you think that for one moment that I am going to— ah, Thorin! Lovely day, isn't it?"

For the first time Bilbo's voice was free of worry or anxiousness, and the Dwarf-king smiled to hear it. Events had all of them nervous, and the seriousness of the Quest was finally taking hold. The Fellowship was gathered and now only time would tell when they would make their move in the chessboard of the Enemy's plans. For now, he merely hoped they could _make_ a first move: it seemed that the bodies of the Ringwraiths' horses had been found (all except one that is) but the Nazgul themselves were unaccounted for. Thorin could tell that the news worried the Elves, even if he did not speak often with them.

He spoke with Gandalf often enough, however, to stay on top of the most recent events. The wizard was uneasy as well, even if he did not show it, and while he spoke as often in riddles as he had before Thorin was able to glean much from them. The Shadow was gaining in power daily, even if its presence was not so thick that anyone could feel it, but enough that it made it necessary to move on from Rivendell as soon as possible.

For now, however, they who had to move on were taking the time to simply enjoy life one moment at a time.

Even if he was irked by the Elves, Thorin couldn't help but have a grudging respect for Rivendell and its calming beauty. It was very easy to forget one's pains in such a peaceful place, and even if it wasn't the high arching rooms of Erebor he had to admit that the gardens were lovely indeed. (Even if the flowers made him sneeze). He was sitting near the river by himself when he heard the quiet pitter-patter of hobbit feet and turned to find Bilbo and Elrond walking together, the hobbit rather comically diminutive beside the tall Elvish lord but in no way was his presence diminished if his spirited words were of any clue. Spotting the Dwarf where he sat in the shade, Bilbo smiled and broke off his conversation with Elrond with a rather hasty good-bye and walked over to where Thorin was.

The Dwarf raised an inquiring eyebrow, a mite sarcastic. "Is something the matter?"

Bilbo leaned back on the heels of his feet, using his walking cane for balance, and his brown eyes sparkled with mirth. "Nothing whatsoever, old friend," he said, "if you do not count an Elf who insists you are too old to handle a sword."

Now both of Thorin's brows rose, prepared for any answer but that one—although, he knew, he should be prepared for Bilbo's quick wit by now. He sighed in resignation, knowing he would forever underestimate the hobbit in some way or another, and merely smiled. "None can be too old to handle a sword," he answered. "I take it you did not take kindly to such a suggestion?"

"All I said was that I was going to go and see the lads as they learned to handle their own swords better," Bilbo protested. "Master Elrond seems to think that I wish I were young enough to join them. Now I'll admit that I _did_ bring up my own crash-course in handling a sword…"

Something in Bilbo's last words seemed to free some last resistance in Thorin's enjoyment. Feeling a loud laugh build deep in his chest he threw his head back and fairly roared with laughter. Bilbo eased himself onto the grass beside him. Finally Thorin calmed and looked at Bilbo still grinning. "You had more than a crash-curse in sword handling, Bilbo Baggins," he retorted good-naturedly. "I dare say you had never seen so much of a _handle_ of a sword before we came along to Bag End."

"I did have to learn very quickly, didn't I?" the hobbit chuckled. The Dwarves had been rather reluctant in the beginning to teach him how to handle a weapon—of any kind—and the first few "battles" he had been in he had had to rely more on instinct and quick action and less on the true sword work.

"I'm surprised you didn't chop your own hand off in the beginning."

"When you saw me more as a grocer than a burglar," Bilbo agreed, and the two friends shared a reminiscent smile. "Would you mind coming with me to watch the lads handle their own battles?"

So Thorin found himself walking along to the training pavilion with nothing better to do. Besides, he knew it would be a good way to inform himself on the other members of the Company he was now a part of. Approaching the shaded area the Dwarf and hobbit could hear the ringing of steel blade on steel blade become louder and louder, and at times more grating on the ears as the occasional note rang out flatter or more shrill than normal. The low murmur of voices was able to be heard as they came closer, too low for a Dwarf's ears but not a hobbits if Bilbo's grin was any indication.

When they finally entered the training area they found Merry and Pippin practicing sword movements together with the Gondorian Man, Boromir, supervising them. Thorin knew that Boromir was the heir of the Steward of Minas Tirith, but knew nothing else about the Man besides the fact that he was going on the Quest as well. He was tall but solid, his face fairer than most Men's, and more noble—but also more arrogant. Perhaps Thorin was able to recognize the latter because he was himself rather arrogant at times, but he knew that looks didn't guarantee the heart. Bilbo was enough proof of that.

Boromir seemed a patient enough teacher as he instructed the two youngest hobbits in their stances, however, saying as Dwarf and hobbit approached, "Plant your feet firmly in the dirt, Merry. There. You see how your balance seems more centered now?"

Frodo was sitting on a bench on the other side of the pavilion in the light of the sun, holding his own sword in his lap. Bilbo headed over to him and Thorin followed more slowly, instead watching the lesson. Boromir had clearly finished with his instructions and now Merry and Pippin were carrying them out. Watching them Thorin realized that while at first glance the two youngest cousins seemed much alike, there were several differences in their personalities. Merry watched his movements and his opponent's critically, his dark blue eyes focused and almost devoid of emotion, propelled on by logic. Even inexperienced as he was, there was the hidden makings of a talented swordsman in Meriadoc Brandybuck.

Pippin, in contrast to Merry's absolute dedication to his actions, seemed as flighty as a sparrow. His bright eyes were continually roaming to everything and anything, sometimes ignorant of what his opponent was doing. His movements were quick and edgy, almost as if he wasn't sure he was handling himself correctly; but nevertheless Thorin's expert eye could see that if Pippin were to move away from his inattentiveness, he also would be a force to be reckoned with. Even now the red-headed lad was able to hold his own against his cousin for a startlingly long amount of time until finally with a twist of his wrist Merry was able to knock Pippin's sword out of his hands.

With a yelp Pippin jerked back and shook his hands; the handle had irritated his palms it seemed as it was jerked from his grasp. He glared at Merry as his cousin smirked triumphantly at him, but it was a look without much heat. "One of these days, Merry—" he began, but Boromir shook his head. Thorin continued on before listening to the Man's words, instead making his way over to where Bilbo and Frodo sat.

"—beaten Merry at all?" Bilbo was asking, a rather amused grin on his face as he watched merry and Pippin begin again.

Frodo shook his head. "Not yet," he answered, watching them as well. "Pip's sure that he will soon though." He looked away to where Thorin was and smiled. "Hello, Thorin. So, Uncle Bilbo managed to drag you all this way, did he?"

"You will find, Frodo-lad, that it is impossible to drag a Dwarf _anywhere_," Bilbo replied with a stern air, but he ruined the effect by winking at his nephew. "And why do I see you sitting out while your cousins go through all the training?"

Frodo flushed slightly. "Elrond told me I am to rest my shoulder as much as I can," he answered. "If I feel my shoulder straining I should sit and let it recover." His hands nervously played with the handle of his weapon and looking down Thorin realized what it was exactly he held.

"Isn't that Sting?"

Bilbo nodded. "'Deed it is," he said. Frodo, hearing Pippin calling out again, turned back to watch his younger cousins again, his gaze suddenly sharp and rather stern. Bilbo merely raised an eyebrow at hearing the youngest hobbit's outcry, a mix of amusement and scolding warring in his expression, but otherwise ignored the sudden commotion a few feet away from them. "I bequeathed it to Frodo just the other day, actually. My lad broke his Westernesse sword before coming here so I gave him one that will be handier than most."

"Broke—" But then Thorin remembered what it was that had followed Frodo and his companions to Rivendell and realized what it was that had broken it. Hopefully Sting would hold up better under the might of the Nazgul than the ancient Men's blade.

Just as he hoped the still-tentative Fellowship would hold under the presence of the Shadow.

A/N: Next chapter we will be finally seeing the Fellowship as a whole and before that we'll finally have Thorin meet Aragorn one-on-one. (Aragon went AWOL for several days in my LotR world so I couldn't introduce him until now in the story.)


	7. Chapter 7

"_**Chapter 7"**_

Leaving Bilbo's rooms late that same night, Thorin discovered that he was too restless to settle down in his own quarters, and decided that a long trek through the halls would help. He would have stayed and talked with his friend longer, but he knew that Bilbo was tired, even if the stubborn hobbit refused to admit it. Seeing Bilbo so old—so _frail_—now was unnerving, a fact that Thorin would just as stubbornly refuse to say aloud. He realized that somehow, through the course of the years, he had imagined that Bilbo would remain just as young and lively as he had been during their Adventure, a thought that had probably been cemented through the still-youthful coloring of Bilbo's letters; but that belief had taken a hard beating. He sighed. They were all old now, old and tired and on the farther side of life.

Stupid Elves, granted immortality. He was a mix of jealousy and pity about that. Who wouldn't want forever to live? But he also realized that there was a curse hidden within such a circumstance, something odd and frightening about having forever in your grasp. Something that made him supremely grateful that he had been born mortal.

His feet led him to a wing of Rivendell that he had only been to once—the Hall that held the shards of Narsil. He had been to this particular place only at the beginning of his Quest to reclaim Erebor, when he and his companions had been tricked by Gandalf to stepping into the Elves' territory. He knew the story of how Narsil had separated the One Ring from Sauron's finger, was familiar with the fact that the Dark lord had broken Elendil's sword which Isildur used to his advantage.

It seemed fitting for him to come here, to this place that was a reminder of War when his thoughts dwelled constantly on such things.

The sword was still a thing of beauty, even broken as it was. Its blade gleamed a bright silver in the moonlight, deadly and magnificent—and well it should be, Thorin thought proudly. After all, Telchar the Dwarf, one of the best smiths of his kind, had created it. Any piece of Dwarf armor or weaponry was something to be proud of. It truly was a mighty weapon.

"Good evening, Master Dwarf."

The soft, unfamiliar voice caused him to spin where he stood, unconsciously poised for defense, until he saw that it was a Man standing there. He really was a very tall fellow, taller than most, with dark hair and keen eyes he could see even in the dark. Thorin thought he looked vaguely familiar but couldn't place him.

"Do you usually sneak up on people like that?' he asked gruffly, dropping from his defensive posture and glaring up at the Man.

"Only if those people aren't paying attention," the Man answered, and there was a definite note of amusement to his tone.

Thorin 'hmph'ed but knew that the stranger had a point—and a very good one at that. He settled for simply glaring up at his unwanted company, and a stiff silence descended upon them until finally with a small smile the Man continued:

"I did not believe that anyone would be wandering at this time of night, and I often come here. I apologize for my disturbing you." He bowed slightly. "Your servant, Master Dwarf." He turned in preparation of leaving, but then Thorin called,

"I didn't think there was another Man here besides the Steward's son. Are you perhaps a companion of his?"

The Man paused at the end of the Hall, and Thorin could swear he saw his back stiffen just the slightest—but his face was mild and polite as he looked back at Thorin. "I am neither companion nor servant of Boromir's—but mayhap I can call him 'friend' before the end of this Quest." He looked almost stern now, but still polite. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn."

Ah. So that was why this fellow looked familiar. He had seen this same Man at the Council several days ago, but said Man had not spoken much at all during the discussions, except perhaps during the Elf Legolas's tale of the creature Gollum's escape from Mirkwood. The Ranger—for that was what Thorin knew this Man to be—had seemed content to simply listen and observe all that happened.

It also explained why he had shown up _here_ of all places now. Thorin's gaze turned back to the shards of Narsil sitting on their pedestal. Aragorn's attention followed his and the Man smiled grimly.

"It seems that I always end up where my ancestors reside," he said to Thorin's unspoken inquiry, and he walked back to where the Dwarf stood. "But the time will come soon when Narsil will shine again—very soon indeed, for I have told Elrond that the Sword that Was Broken will smite Sauron's forces like days of old."

"You plan to accompany the Ringbearer as well?" Thorin asked, startled at the thought.

Aragorn smiled again—this time with genuine warmth. It was clear that he held Frodo Baggins in high respect. "I led him and his fellows from Bree to Rivendell, through Black night and danger. I consider it logical, as well, to help Frodo with the destruction of Isildur's Bane."

"Poetic justice?" Thorin asked, not sure if he was impressed or not.

Aragorn's smile turned a mite sharp. "I prefer to call it "dramatic irony"."

Now that—_that_—Thorin could be impressed with. And he was.

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The next morning, he went to visit Bilbo in the hobbit's quarters. It seemed that Aragorn was very familiar with the eldest hobbit as well as the latter's relations. He knocked on the fine oak door as he always did, but this time there was no answering voice telling him that he could come in. Frowning, he wondered why. Bilbo was always awake at this time of the day, and was always ready to admit guests.

Was he sick? Or was he still sleeping today? Thorin couldn't help his curiosity, and pushed open the door.

"Bilbo?"

At the sound of his voice, there was a low, shuddering intake of breath, dry and heavy, and he frowned, fingering the hilt of Orcist. No one was in the large bed, nor was there anyone at the window, so where-?

Turning the small corner of the room, he saw the answer to his question. The hobbit in question was seated in a chair farthest from the door, clutching a red-bound book, and a look of lost despair was on his face. Thorin had never seen Bilbo Baggins look such, and it unnerved him. It was the same stark, shocked face the older hobbit had worn at the Council, and Frodo had volunteered to take the Ring to Mordor.

"Bilbo?"

Now the elderly hobbit looked up at him; there was no hint of tears on his face but his eyes were dark with guilt. He did not greet Thorin as he usually did, only stared at him for a long moment. Then he spoke: "I have tasked my boy to write his Adventure down. For so many years I hoped… I dreamed that I would give him this book to read, and to read as nothing more than a fairy tale, something that his dotty old cousin once wrote down to settle his over-Adventurous spirit.' He took another shuddering breath and looked down at the book. "I've tasked Frodo to write his Adventure down, and I'm not sure if he'll even _make it back_." At those last three words, his voice broke and Thorin thought that he saw a single tear fall into his lap.

He slowly approached his friend and crouched a little so that he could look into Bilbo's face. "No one said that this Quest would be easy," he said as gently as he could. "All you can do is have faith that your boy has the strength to do what needs to be done."

Bilbo nodded in reply, but his face was still writ with sadness. 'Have I doomed my lad to Darkness, Thorin?" he asked plaintively. His hands were shaking. "I found that cursed Ring, and then I _gave_ it to him. My dear boy, given that—that _monstrosity_!"

Thorin sighed, and took one of those old, gnarled hands in one of his own. "I can promise no clear outcome, my friend," he said quietly, "but I will promise this: I will do my utmost to keep your Frodo, _and_ his fellows, safe and uninjured as possible." He knew that that wasn't much, but it was the best he could give.

As he would eventually find, however, that promise was all that was needed.

* * *

A/N: I know, I promised a meeting of the entire Fellowship in this chapter, but writing this down, Bilbo decided to have a moment of crisis and Thorin was right there already, so I just went with it! Nobody likes seeing distressed hobbits longer than they have to, so our poor Dwarf had to play counselor. Next chapter will have the Fellowship, I swear!


	8. Chapter 8

"_**Chapter 8"**_

A/N: I know it has been a long time since I've updated this, but I have no excuse for my lacking other than I simply moved onto other stories for a while. But now I'm back with this, so I hope none of you hunt me down. X) I really hope you like this chapter, because I started writing it, didn't like it, and rewrote the whole thing.

* * *

_When Thorin woke, it was merely a respite from feverish delirium where he lay in the care of Erebor's healers; but waking was so much worse than nightmares. In waking, he was assaulted by terrible pain that throbbed and burned its way through his body, starting at the torn, nearly-crushed mess of his ribcage and extending through his shocked limbs. To the ear, he only mumbled incoherently, but in his mind he could feel his terror and he called unanswered for his nephews._

'_Kili! Fili!' He called for them desperately, but they never came. In those moments of stunted lucidity, he remembered what his delirium did not._

_His nephews were dead. No one had to tell him that; before oblivion had overtaken him on the battlefield he had seen Kili mortally wounded defending his own broken body, and he had known even without witnessing it that Fili would die fighting to avenge his brother and uncle. On some level, Thorin was glad his tongue would not speak their names aloud because he didn't think he could handle false assurances that his nephews were "simply wounded" and would "be along shortly"._

_He wasn't even sure how _he_ was still alive. He could swear from the amount of pain he was in that he should have died long before now. How could one body bear this much pain and not simply give out?_

_Kili and Fili's deaths hurt more than even when he had witnessed Thror beheaded at the gates of Moria, or of Thrain's disappearance and eventual death. He had been charged with protecting his nephews, both for his sister Dis and for Durin's line, and now they were gone and it was his fault._

_Through the haze of pain pounding at his skull, he realized that there was someone standing near him in the room—Oin, if the ear trumpet was any indication. The light of the lantern in the corner of the room drove into his sensitive eyesight like a knife and he involuntarily groaned, trying to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the brightness. At his movement, however, a sharp lance seemed to jab itself into his ribs and he realized that maybe moving wasn't the best idea._

_Oin noticed his patient was aware immediately and turned to face him, his dark eyes brightening with relief. "Thorin, thank Mahal!" He perceptively stepped in front of the lantern so that his shadow fell across Thorin's face. The healer reached and checked the Dwarf-king's clammy skin and nodded in satisfaction. "Fever's broke," he muttered to himself, and Thorin heard the wet gurgle of water being poured and then the carved rim of a cup was held to his lips. One of Nori's hands held up his head gently as he drank thirstily. Slowly, he felt his chaotic mind clear a little at the coolness of the water and tried to grin at Nori to show the latter that he was grateful for his help._

"_B… Battle?" he rasped, and felt his lungs flare with a fresh wave of pain._

_Nori set the cup down and looked down sternly at him. "You'd do better staying silent for a few more days, Thorin," the healer admonished him. "You're sporting five cracked ribs, three broken ones, a concussion, and severe lacerations on your torso. We had to be careful removing an arrow from your shoulder, and we were afraid we would lose you to shock for a while. But I suppose you're too stubborn to give up now."_

_Oin's attempt at humor fell flat, and Thorin saw that his face had become almost grey with exhaustion, with lines dug beneath his eyes and making him look several years older than he really was. He could guess why._

_His expression seemed to order Oin to tell him of the battle, because Oin sighed. "We won," he said quietly. "But not without suffering heavy losses. A third of our combined armies died with almost another third wounded, but we were able to push the Orcs and goblins out eventually. We aren't sure how many of those demons were killed, but we know it's well into the thousands. You'll be pleased to know that Bolg was killed by Beorn on the battlefield."_

_For a long moment his news did not register, and Thorin could only look at him blankly; but then he realized what that meant for him, and he let his eyes fall closed as waves of relief washed over him. Finally, the legacy of Azog the Pale Orc was gone, his son defeated. No more would Thorin be haunted by the shadow of Thror's murderer. _'You have been avenged, Grandfather,' _he thought to himself._

0000000

Quietly, Thorin waited by the doors of the Last Homely House, waiting for the rest of the Fellowship to appear. It was a crisp, clear December morning, a good enough morning for them to leave, with no snow lying on the ground but a fine layer of frost icing everything over. His breath plumed in the air as he shifted from one foot to the other. Gimli stood beside him, wearing his heavy armor complete with his axe swung over his shoulder. He looked so much like his father that Thorin was silently afraid that he'd allow his tongue to slip and he'd call the younger Dwarf "Gloin".

The Ranger, Aragorn, appeared next, along with Elrond. The two of them were deep in a quiet yet heated discussion, and neither immediately greeted the two Dwarves, although Aragorn managed a quick nod at them before continuing his argument. Elrond cut him off, however, with a sharp look when Gandalf came into view, and turned to the approaching wizard.

"Everything is in order," Gandalf said to the Elf's silent inquiry. "The hobbits are coming—Bilbo had one last thing he wanted to say to them all before they left their rooms."

Boromir, the Man from Gondor, arrived a few minutes later, and stood silently by himself. Thorin watched him for a moment; it seemed the Man was still much more of an outsider here, something that he was interested in seeing play out in the approaching months.

The Elf was next—Legolas, the pampered son of Thandruil. He blatantly ignored the two Dwarves standing by the door and they did the same, although Gimli growled something deep in his throat.

Finally, the hobbits arrived, Bilbo in the lead and wrapped up in a large, warm blanket, with Frodo beside him. They seemed to be the only two truly awake, Thorin noticed with some amusement. The servant, Samwise, was hiding a yawn behind his hand; Merry was busy rubbing the sleep from his eyes; and the youngest, Pippin, was practically leaning on the former. They certainly did not look like they were ready to start a day of walking, although, as Thorin knew, hobbits always found a way to surprise others.

Bilbo was proof enough for that.

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_It took Thorin two more days before he was able to talk, and the first thing he asked was how he was still alive._

_Surprisingly, Oin hesitated telling him. He seemed oddly reluctant to open his mouth and explain, and it took Thorin ordering him as his king to tell him that the other Dwarf finally spoke._

"_It was Bilbo who found you," Oin said quietly, deliberately missing Thorin's gaze. His explanation came much more rushed after he'd spoken. "He fought bravely during the battle, but he was knocked unconscious near the end. I had to treat him for a concussion. But when he woke up he immediately started looking for any of us and seemed to have stumbled across you—he was at your side staunching the blood loss when we found you."_

_Thorin felt his rage burn red. "That thief should not have defended Erebor at all!" he growled, ignoring the way his chest flared with pain again. "He does not belong here. He should have left with Dain's army!"_

"_Not with a concussion he wasn't," Oin retorted smoothly. "He was swaying like a tree in the wind and was ready to fall flat on his face from exhaustion. You don't mess with concussions."_

_Thorin glared at him. "You were just looking for an excuse for him to stay," he accused him._

"_Yes, I was," came the utterly unashamed reply. Oin didn't do so much as blink with the admission._

_By the time Thorin could regain his feet nearly a week later, the hobbit had left with Gandalf—heading back home to the Shire, leaving without so much of a goodbye._

0000000

"Goodbye, old friend," he said now to the hobbit. Bilbo smiled at him—his moment of doubt in his rooms could have never happened, his attitude was so optimistic. The hobbit was shivering in his blanket, clearly disliking the cold, but his own farewell was warm.

"Mahal protect you and yours, Thorin."

'If only I _had_ a "yours",' Thorin thought to himself, but out loud he merely replied, "Doesn't He always?"

As he watched Bilbo say goodbye to his nephew, as cheerful as always, Thorin was not thinking of himself when he pondered Bilbo's prayer. Instead, he silently studied Frodo, and knew how much the two Baggins meant to each other, and then to himself repeated Bilbo's words, changing only one word.

_Eru protect you and yours._

* * *

A/N: To me, it always seemed a bit funny that Tolkien wrote only that Bilbo had been knocked unconscious in the book during the battle, but then I realized that he probably did that because, all in all, _The Hobbit _was a children's book. So some details in this chapter, and ones to come, will mention slight alterings of the Battle of the Five Armies that fit more with an actual battle.


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